


Nice

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, Clueless lovers, Eventually Resolved Sexual Tension, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Mixes book and TV canon pretty shamelessly, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Shamelessly Sappy, Shamelessly tropey, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-04-08 08:11:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: That was no way to think, just because a stupid ex-nun misinterpreted a blamelessly hostile situation. That way lay madness. That way lay an angel with disapprovingly pursed lips and pitying pale eyes and “My dear boy, I’m so *very* sorry, but...” and Armageddon would come as a relief after that, really.24/6--complete!





	1. in which niceness is a trap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Romana (romana03)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/romana03/gifts).



Sometimes Crowley admitted to himself, deep in the serpentine depths of what passed for his heart, that angels did some things better.

Keeping up sartorial standards, for instance. Not style, Satan still had that market cornered, and no one had called tartan bow ties stylish in several decades. Still, there was no doubt that over the last few thousand years after the Fall, the hosts of Hell had let their standards slip. Look at Beezlebub. Or rather, smell them. Catch Gabriel or Michael going around smelling like that. It was embarrassing.

Aziraphale smelled rather nice. Like old whiskey and morning rains and warm fur and an almost undetectable undercurrent of incense.

“Just miracle it away, angel.”

“I’ll still know it was there. You know, deep down underneath it all.”

They were both of angelic stock, and Aziraphale’s coat was if anything better up to standard than Crowley’s jacket, splash of blue paint aside. That was a perfectably reasonable, er, reason, to call on a minor demonic miracle. Oh Satan, restore this jacket.

It was nothing at all to do with the beseeching, decidedly not up to standards puppy-dog eyes Aziraphale was turning on him. Or the way he then looked at Crowley, as if a run-to-seed demon was absolutely the most wonderful and nicest being in creation.

Aziraphale‘s cheeks pinked and his gaze dropped, and Crowley was already catching himself smiling indulgently when reality hit him in the face like a dead frog.

It wasn’t just that Aziraphale determinedly saw the best in everyone, even his Adversary. It was that it really had been a nice thing to do, hadn’t it? It had hardly been required by the Arrangement, a functional miracle now swapped for a quick temptation later.Crowley found himself desperately searching for excuses, like he had for his actions back in the Blitz. Aziraphale had clearly been upset by the stain. If the angel was fussing and pouting it could delay the search for the Antichrist by precious minutes. But then, so would getting drunk together on century old brandy and Crowley was definitely planning on that tonight.

It had felt nice. Being nice. Specifically, doing something nice for Aziraphale and have Aziraphale show he felt Crowley was nice.

Bloody angel, with his blushes and pouts and shining eyes and complete obliviousness to how much trouble Crowley could get into Down There for being nice to an angel. As if losing the Antichrist wasn’t enough. Tempting Crowley into niceness.

He leaned over and picked up a gun, feeling it in his hands, feeling the weight and balance change as he pointed it at Aziraphale, rage flickering behind his yellow eyes. What was the angel saying? Something about guns lending moral weight?

He’d show them who was nice. It definitely wasn’t Crowley.

oooo

Of course, the plan would have worked better if Crowley wasn’t, deep down, also weak as non-holy water.

“They’ll all have miraculous escapes,” he admitted. “It wouldn’t be fun, otherwise.”

Aziraphale beamed. Dear Satan, he really did beam, as if it was still the nineteenth bloody century. Nobody beamed these days. Only Arizaphale. “You know,” the angel said, radiating joy and affection, “I’ve always said that, deep down, you were really quite a ni–”

The rage swelled up, over an uncurrent of what was probably terror, and the next thing he had Aziraphale against the wall, and he really wasn’t certain what was going to happen if they really did fight. Technically, as a serpent, he had been a Seraphim, and that supposedly made him more powerful than a mere Principality, and his bodily vessel was certainly in better shape than Aziraphale’s, but Aziraphale was still in a state of Grace and–

–what the heaven would he do in this benighted universe without Aziraphale anyway?

“Sorry to interrupt an intimate moment, gentlemen, but can I help you?”

Crowley let the anger fade. It was really, really important to let Aziraphale know that he, Crowley, the serpent, was in no shape or form nice. But it was more immediately important to know where the Antichrist was.

He was in no mood to get smited, anyway. Down There would have too much chance of figuring out what he was up to if he lost this body, and…

It was nicer when Aziraphale smiled at him anyway.

Oh, bless. Bless bless bless it all to heaven.

oooooo

“You pushed me against a wall, Crowley. You’d only just fixed my jacket and you risked ruining it again. You could have spoiled the shape of my tie, too.”

“Do you want me to say sorry?” For some reason Aziraphale’s plaintive tone was almost too much for Crowley to bear, and the anger rumbled again in his heart.

“No, I suppose that would be too much to ask.” Aziraphale sighed. “But I do want to talk. That young lady–”

“Satanic nuns are not ladies. She’s not that young, either.”

Aziraphale nodded somewhat dismissively. “She was quite nice, for a Satanic nun.”

The word nice was like a knife. “Is she really what you want to talk about, here and now?”

“No. I mean, not really. I mean the young lady, she said–she thought–that you and I...” Aziraphale’s cheeks were tinged with red, and he was looking down at his folded hands.

This was new. Mostly Crowley thought of that particular carnal pleasure as more something to tempt humans to do with each other, with as many tangled emotions as possible. It had been invented for corporeal kind, after all. But Aziraphale… Aziraphale looked perplexed, and vulnerable. He was actually blushing. Aziraphale, with six thousand years of earthly experience, was blushing as fetchingly as a schoolgirl whose name was paired with her crush on a toilet wall.

That was… nice.

“She thought I shoved you against the wall because I was overcome with sexual passion for you and couldn’t wait to kiss you.” Crowley chose the words deliberately, waiting to see the response.

“Yes.” Aziraphale was definitely an attractive rose shade, and his temples were damp where the blond curls sprang up. “I mean, that’s ridiculous. Humans.” His chuckle sounded forced. “The end of the world is looming, and they only have one thing on their minds.”

“Amazing how they do that,” Crowley said, as blandly as possible. “Must be a kind of survival instinct. Not that there’s going to be any babies any more. or any survival for that matter.”

“Pessimist.”

Crowley waved the Bentley’s doors open, waving away the dangerous subject. “After you, angel.”

It wasn’t as if he had been thinking about it in the slightest. He had been angry, and in the grip of a different kind of desperation. He had been ready to fight, pressing himself against Aziraphale to control him and make him listen, not to feel the warmth of the angel’s body against his cold blooded self. And it’s not as if Aziraphale would have kissed him back, would have willingly parted his prim lips to allow a forked tongue to touch his own, would have raised his well manicured hands to pull him tighter…

That was no way to think, just because a stupid ex-nun misinterpreted a blamelessly hostile situation. That way lay madness. That way lay an angel with disapprovingly pursed lips and pitying pale eyes and terrible kindness and “My dear boy, I’m so very sorry, but..” and Armageddon would come as a relief after that, really.

Crowley ignored the unusually unreptilian sensation of heat he was experiencing and got on with trying to prevent the end of the world. He had been aware, for all too long, that he had far too much to lose. Having anything precious to lose at all was rare for a fallen angel, who had already by definition lost everything worth having.

It had been a nice thought, though.

He tried to remember that at the end of the night, when he wanted to ask Aziraphale to stay with him and drink themselves to oblivion and instead the angel had dismissed him and fluttered off as if Crowley had suddenly lost all interest to him. As if he had far more important things to think about than a demon sitting suddenly feeling abandoned and alone in his car, staring at an old bookshop and telling himself to stop being so utterly futile and drive home.

Crowley blessed loudly, drove home, and swore to only call Aziraphale once the angel had had a chance to truly miss him. He’d always done that. Sometimes he had left the angel centuries in which to notice there was an Adversary shaped hole in his life.

A couple of hours should do it tonight.


	2. Bookshops are nice. Thrones, less so.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has an ostentatious throne, Aziraphale has a nice book shop, and demons shouldn't be needy.

Angels, Crowley decided, were less nice than reputed. Certainly less nice than his admittedly fuzzy memories of hell, and rather more clear memories over the last millennium of one particular angel in particular.

He glared at the phone. He was not going to call again. Just because the world would end in a few days was no reason to be clingy. He could spend it… thinking. Yes. That would be productive. Thinking about how to thwart the Antichrist. Thinking about how not to end up in a fire pit, being tortured and bored out of his bloody brain.

Sod it, he was almost ready to turn on the stereo and have a chat with Satan, just to have someone call him “darling” and “love” as if he was important. He’d always been a bit of a pet of Satan’s, back from the old unfallen days when they’d worked on Venus together.

Great idea that was. Hi, lord, yes, things are going well up here. I misplaced your only son, and I’m currently hunting him down and vaguely planning to kill him, why do you ask? Do let me know if the Angel of the Bottomless Pit turns up actually in his personal Pit, lord. Wouldn’t want to waste our time looking.

Besides, there was always the danger that He would speak in Kylie Minogue’s voice again, and that wasn’t to be contemplated.

When had he become lonely so easily? He had spent thousands of years mostly alone. It wasn’t really how it had been supposed to be. They were all in it together, the Prince of Heaven and his gang. They were going to form their own heavenly host, make their own heaven, overthrow Her and establish a rational community in which the word ineffable had been banned and more fun than singing hymns was allowed.

It hadn’t really worked out to plan.

Crowley slouched in his throne and was immediately embarrassed at himself. Why the hell did he have this monstrosity, anyway? It hardly went with the industrial chic of his flat. It had been sitting in Harrods. He loved Harrods. It was carefully designed to foster snobbery, acquisitiveness and vanity. One of his best.

He’d popped in on a slow day to spread some extra greed and envy around, and the throne had caught his eye. Like much of Harrods furniture, it wasn’t something a reasonable person would eat their supper on. It had obviously designed to encourage the vainglory and self-idolatry of pop stars and soccer players. It was the tackiest thing he’d ever seen.

It went straight home with him.

Did he need to remind himself that he had been a Seraph on a far more impressive throne, back in the day? To distinguish himself from the life a used book dealer lived? Or was it because Crowley, for all his attempts to be some definition of cool for whatever era he was in, had no taste?

It wasn’t even comfortable, for Satan’s sake. And he was… pining in it. Pining.

Not pining for evil glory. Not pining for power. Not even pining for lost Heaven—after all, he’d been lonely and bored and slightly irritated most of the time there, too.

Pining for *attention.* From an angel.

When had that happened, again? When had Aziraphale stopped being an occasional indulgence and become a necessary part of life? They’d spent the last eleven year barely apart, of course, raising a kid together even, and Crowley was secretly very proud of what a delightfully disrepectful and rebellious child Warlock had turned out to be. Chip off the old —of someone else’s old block.

But sometime before that, Aziraphale had ended up on speed dial on Crowley’s phone.

Phone. That was it. Modern technology. Humans had nailed the whole never apart thing. No flying across the continents for a chat, hoping no one spotted the wings. It was too temptingly easy to pick up a phone and—

—why didn’t Aziraphale want to talk to Crowley? He’d finally gotten him in the Bentley, and all he cared about was being dropped off? Why would he avoid Crowley?

Because Crowley was a wanker lolling around alone in a gold and red plush throne? The world was coming to an end, no time to worry about trivial things like taste.

Crowley poured himself some of the brandy he’d been keeping to share, and brooded. He was good at brooding. It was as much of a job skill as lurking.

Then he picked up the phone. Again.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale sounded distracted and fretful. “What time in the morning is it?”

“Why do you care? You don’t sleep. Virtue is ever vigilant, right?”

He waited for a snappy answer, but Aziraphale didn’t say anything at all. Almost as though he didn’t have enough attention for Crowley. Almost as if he was looking longingly at something or someone else, waiting for Crowley to hang up so that he could attend to it.

“And after I bought you chocolate and flowers, too!” Oh, great. That would make him seem less needy. Good job.

“What?” That, at least, got a little of Aziraphale’s attention. “Are you sure? It doesn’t sound like you. No, no, no, I’m quite sure I would remember something like that.” Aziraphale sounded quite fretful.

“Back when—” Crowley paused. “Oh. I suppose didn’t actually give them to you.” There was silence, while the serpent in his heart writhed in humiliation. “Anyway, it was a few centuries ago. Never mind.”

“Chocolates and flowers? Whatever for?” Crowley could *hear* the puzzled blinking.

“Anyway, obviously no news on the kid, me either, talk to you soon, ciao,” he babbled, hanging up.

That bloody bookshop. He hadn’t been able to resist buying something to celebrate the opening.

And, in the end, he had never had the courage to turn up and give them to Aziraphale anyway, not after their last quarrel. Courage? What would have happened that needed courage, anyway? Aziraphale would have beamed and taken great delight in tasting the chocolates and the flowers would have bloomed in the bookshop a very long time without wilting, and remained as a constant reminder that the blasted bookshop had been Crowley’s idea in the first place, and that he spent altogether too much time trying to conjure up an angel’s smile.

Perhaps he was right to worry.

He’d bought them. Then lurked around the bookshop a bit, made sure some louts who would find it funny to set the rich guy's books on fire were distracted by news of a tempting horse robbery just down the street. Crowley took a malign satisfaction in what his horse would do to them. If he had to suffer through steeds with flaming eyes and knif-edged hooves, he shouldn't be the only one to suffer. Then he left. 

000000000

1742

The bookshop had been a well thought out temptation. One of Crowley’s best. Aziraphale, for all his holiness, was not above a bit of covetousness.

“Well, purely to preserve the books,” Aziraphale said, rubbing beautifully soft hands together. “Protecting human knowledge and creativity is a virtue. We can’t have a disaster like the Library of Alexandrina again. I can make sure they go to good homes, homes where they are cherished and protected. Spread knowledge and literature among the populace. And in the meantime—” The glow in his eyes was as luminous as the sun filtering through the forest leaves.

They were in the Andes Mountains or, as they had come to an unspoken understanding anywhere but New York, where they had been checking out the local restaurants not too long ago. Since then Crowley had gone to Russia and the angel had gone to Bavaria, but neither place had been quite far enough.

He and Aziraphale had agreed that they needed to come out and have a chat to this Atahualpa Apu-Inca fellow, and find out if either of their sides were behind his holy visions. Mostly, however, they had just wanted to escape the stench of burning bodies in New York.

“You can find them good homes, true. And in the short term, you can talk to them and stroke their covers,” Crowley agreed. He flicked a moth from Aziraphale’s shoulder, and repressed a wince of discomfort as he realised Aziraphale was taking another imperceptible step downward. The road to hell was paved with tiny compromises, with oysters and olives and wonderful music, tragic plays and arrangements and *books*.

Had to be better than gibbetting men alive. He shuddered, and turned to his companion.

“For a demon, you do have the nicest ideas, my dear,” Aziraphale said happily. Crowley shuddered again, for a different reason.

“Don’t spoil this afternoon. I’m not nice. I’m just thinking about all the works of evil and corruption you provide for the humans.”

“I’m sure I will only stock very improving books,” Aziraphale said primly. He bristled at Crowley’s scornful laugh. “Well. Maybe a few more interesting books. Humans have to know about Sin in order to choose Good, you know.”

“That’s what I always said,” Crowley said vaguely, and Aziraphale gave him a *look*.

Crowley looked away quickly. He surreptitiously flicked his fingers and a flycatcher squawked in indignation as its tail feathers singed. It failed to make Crowley feel any better. Or any worse. He wasn’t sure what emotional effect was trying for. Either way, it wasn’t a nice thing to do, and every little bit helped.

Aziraphale really should been the one to fall. Not that a pitchfork would have suited him, but if he was so terribly good at tempting to niceness, he would have been irresistible at tempting to evil.

Irresistible. A small yellow butterfly was dancing in Aziraphale’s hair, as if drawn by his warm aura, and ‘irresistible’ was a poor choice of word, especially when Crowley was already feeling that this world was just a little bit better for Aziraphale’s delight at the thought of a book shop. Especially when it was hard to resist touching that fluffy hair himself.

Crowley sighed and got up. The butterfly flew away at his movement, or perhaps because it sensed he was in the presence of a suddenly ill tempered demon.

“Not coming to see the holy leader?” Aziraphale asked. The angel bit his lip a little, as if disappointed, and Crowley had to resist the temptation to bite his own.

“Not today. I’ve got to go back to that little village. I have a memo to write about that business in New York.” And it’s better done drunk, he added to himself. “You can report back. No sense in us both going.”

Aziraphale was still biting his lip, and now his eyes looked darker. “You’re claiming credit for that miserable business?”

“Every little bit helps,” he said, echoing his own thought.

“You didn’t—I mean, Crowley, you wouldn’t—”

“No, not me. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing up here, I can’t think up any mischief worse than a sixteen year old kid can manage all on her own,” Crowley said bitterly. Aziraphale was still looking at him with an unhappy, nervous face, and Crowley balled his hands into fists. “You didn’t think—”

“Not for a moment! I mean, I hoped—well, you are working for the Evil One,” Aziraphale said unhappily. “Oh, dear boy, no, come back. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to misjudge you.”

But Crowley was gone.

The worst of it, he thought, the absolute worst of it, was the sickening suspicion that Aziraphale hadn’t really misjudged him at all. And it terrified him.

Hell wasn’t very kind to nice demons.

They’d been spending altogether too much time together. Much more time than the Arrangement really required. It was just that the eighteenth century was so much more exciting, as if things had suddenly sped up, and humans were doing all kinds of delicious and clever and delightful and diabolical things with art and literature and learning and, as always, wars. It was nice to have someone who understood, someone who could really appreciate the difference between this and four centuries ago.

Someone who really appreciated a good meal, with the sheer sensual enjoyment of someone who had never had to eat merely to sustain life.

Well, it was time to stop.

Apart from the glimpse outside the bookshop, Crowley hadn’t seen Aziraphale again until the Reign of Terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Should these be footnotes? But the historical ones aren't very amusing. Google 1741 New York and 1742 Peru, if you like.
> 
> 2) Thank you for all of the encouragement! I've been out of fandom such a long time, and it's nice to be back.
> 
> 3) There was a mention in an interview that Gaiman wrote a scene in Crowley and Aziraphale's Grand Tour of History in which Crowley turned up at the opening of the bookshop with flowers and chocolates to celebrate, and instead had to convince Gabriel that Crowley was very much needed on Earth to thwart his evil plans. One day I will fully write out my version of those events.
> 
> 4) Last chapter, I forgot to mention that romana03 figured out through the serpent iconography that Crowley would have been one of the Seraphim, and outrank Aziraphale before the fall. I guess minor angels didn't design stars.
> 
> 5) I swear I saw Crowley's throne once in Harrods. I couldn't stop giggling at the crazy ostentatiousness of it. Didn't know it belonged to a demon. What a dork he is.
> 
> 6) There were two sentences and I half I had apparently deleted, about the bookshop and Crowley's horse. Restored.


	3. Another life begins today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back and forth, back and forth we go...

Crowley didn’t go in much for despair. In his experience, things usually worked out for the best for him, so long as he kept his cool. And he was good at being cool. Cold blood had its advantages.

Even being kicked out of Heaven hadn’t been so bad, after the initial shock. Especially after Satan sent him upside. Hell was, by definition, less pleasant than Heaven, but the world was full of interest, adventure, and humans who were good at inventing things like music, fashion and new and creative temptations, all on their own. Once the worst had happened, there were no more terrible repercussions for asking awkward questions about the universe. Well, other than Aziraphale getting a bit miffed and suggesting it was getting late and they both had work to do.

Besides, even though he and Aziraphale had cohabited heaven, they’d never so much as noticed each other until the Garden. Aziraphale had been tight with Uriel and the boys, and Crowley had hung with Lucifer and the guys. Their flight paths hadn’t crossed, until that first stormy day in Eden. 

Crowley had faith–belief–a kind of comfortable assurance that he always would land on his tail–his feet and that all was for the best in his own particular world. It had never let him down yet.

Until he laid it all out to Aziraphale, in the middle of a fight no less, all the things he thought had been unspoken and shared, and been soundly rejected.

_I don’t even like you._

Even then, he had dismissed it. Of _course_ Aziraphale liked him. Crowley wasn’t stupid. He had intercepted too many tender glances, too many affectionate smiles, not to notice. Maybe Aziraphale was too pure to actually be into him in a human sense, maybe Aziraphale was kind of obligated to love all God’s creatures anyway, but even then, Crowley was sure the angel was personally fond of him. And enjoyed his company, all the more deliciously because it was a forbidden pleasure. Aziraphale always tended to deny his forbidden pleasures, even as he indulged in them.

Things were too desperate for Crowley’s own indulgence of that nonsense. He was facing an eternity of torment–without Aziraphale. Or even worse, with. It had seemed only mildly evil to tempt Aziraphale to fall and keep him company, until he was facing the thought of all eternity watching him suffer.

Then Aziraphale really said it.

_It’s over._

The words clanged in Crowley’s ears like church bells, racketing and painful, long after he had left.

 _Over._

It couldn’t be _over_. Not after six thousand years. Not after one stupid quarrel. They’d had loads of quarrels. Only they’d always had time to make up, before.

 _You go too fast for me, Crowley._ But it wasn’t like there was any time left to dawdle. Maybe Crowley should have kissed him. Kiss and make up like humans said. Nothing left to lose, anyway. It might just have worked.

It's not like it could have gone worse.

 

**Los Angeles**

 

“Hullo, Crowley. I didn’t expect to see you here.” Aziraphale wasn’t in flamboyant beige and cream this time. He wore sedate black, as black as Crowley’s suit jacket.

Crowley was always dressed appropriately for funerals.

“Just thought I’d pop in, you know.” Crowley shifted uneasily. “Back down here for the Olympics anyway.”

“You knew him?” Aziraphale shuffled slightly closer, his sleeve brushing against Crowley’s own, as if moving close for comfort. It made what passed for Crowley’s heart jump. He stared at the lowered coffin instead.

“Not really. Saw him around at a few parties, liked his music. Quite promising young DJ, really, even though he didn’t make it past the small clubs and backyard parties in the end. I quite like new wave, you know. Lots of hedonism, the lyrics are quite Shakespearean in bits, too. You’d like it.” Crowley waited for Aziraphale to say something scathing about electronic music, but there was silence. The boy really hadn't been anyone in particular. Crowley didn't really know em>why he was there, except had quite been enjoying the 1980s so far, and the new wave scene was part of that. He'd always had a tendency to wear black and tight trousers, and all he had to do was add a lot of hairspray and eyeliner. No one could see the eyeliner, of course, but he knew it was there. “Anyway, I thought I, you know, could. You?”

“Never met him. I try to attend as many of these funerals as I can. Sometimes I can say something to help the family. Give my condolences..”

“Condolences?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Funny thing, a preacher down the way was saying this kind of thing was smiting by your lot. Sodom and Gomorrah all over again.”

He had meant to needle, but then he saw Aziraphale’s stricken face, and was swamped with quite undemonic guilt. He felt he should apologise, but he could only go so far. Instead, he muttered something that might have sounded kind of like, if you really really strained to interpret it, a strangled “s’ry” and looked for a distraction. He found it in a guest apart from the others, the only other one in sunglasses.

“That’s his young man, I suppose.”

“Oh, it couldn’t be,” Aziraphale said, immediately. “Not all alone in the back like that. He’d be up with the family.”

“You really are too good for this world, aren’t you, angel?”

The young man caught their glances, and slowly made his way across. He was wearing glasses as dark as Crowley’s own, but Crowley suspected he was hiding his eyes for a quite different reason. Tear tracks showed on his cheeks.

“Hi.” He was thin, too thin, and had skin that should have been a rich brown but had some grey underlying it, and a voice that was too weak for its timbre. It should have been a rich brown as well. Instead it was more like railway station cafe tea. “I’m Luke.”

“Hi,” Crowley said awkwardly, giving a half wave. “Anthony.”

“A good name, Luke,” Aziraphale said kindly, love radiating from him so hard that it almost hurt Crowley to look at him. “My sympathy, my dear, for your terrible loss.”

The boy brightened slightly, although the lines of grief were etched far too deeply around his mouth and forehead for someone so young. “Thanks–thanks for that, I mean it. I mean the others, they didn’t speak to me. But you’re–he told me he had a funny uncle. From England. You are his uncle, yeah? You look like you would be.”

“In a manner of speaking, a manner of speaking,” Aziraphale said, very gently.

Crowley suddenly became aware of a pressure on his suit sleeve. He glanced down, and saw Aziraphale’s hand gripping the material tightly, as if for comfort. He was unsettled. The two of them rarely touched, and if they did it was more Crowley inching closer than the other way around. Not that they were touching, anyway, but–

This was a damn sight closer to holding hands than Crowley was prepared for. 

“Thanks, anyway,” said Luke. “For speaking to me. And for having the guts to bring your boyfriend. I guess you understand, though.”

Crowley felt a mild shock, and expected Aziraphale to be blushing and startled. Instead, the angel smiled warmly. “Try not to grieve too deeply. He’s in a better place, dear,” Aziraphale said gently, making no attempt to dispute the relationship. “No more pain, no fear. No sorrow, no crying.”

“I wish I could believe that for sure.”

“It’s quite true. I checked.”

The boy looked a little startled, but then obviously decided to dismiss it as kindly meant eccentricity. “I guess I’ll be with him soon, wherever he ended up.”

Aziraphale released Crowley’s sleeve, which gave the demon an odd twinge of loss, and stepped forward and embraced the young man, tenderly kissing his cheeks. Crowley looked away, a different kind of pang in his heart. “Chin up, my dear, dear child. You have a long and, I hope, happy life ahead of you before an eternity together. Another life begins today.”

Luke bit his lip doubtfully, but as the human ducked his head to hide a sob and made his way out of the graveyard, Crowley noted that he was moving with less lassitude, and his colour had already improved remarkably.

“You can’t save them all, angel,” he hissed. “Remember the bubonic plague. Gabriel nearly called you back upstairs for overdoing the miracles.”

“Perhaps not. But I could save this one.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a smile, bright and brittle as one of Crowley’s own smiles on the surface, but with a blinding strength of pure goodness under it. Had Crowley ever been as truly good as that, back in his own angelic days? He couldn’t remember having been. “And in the meantime, public education may help. I’m quite sure that would be God’s work. Come on, Crowley. I don’t feel much like speaking to the rest of the family after all. The least I can do is buy my boyfriend lunch before the volleyball.”

He has to know what he just said, Crowley thought. Even he could not be so dense. It was at least a couple of decades since anyone had used ‘boy friend’ to mean ‘friend who is a boy’, and he must know quite well what that young man thought of us. It’s–it’s just banter. That’s what we do, we bicker and banter. That’s all.

As he slithered after Aziraphale, who was already discussing menus, Crowley felt a treacherous warmth in his heart. Being thought of as Aziraphale’s significant other felt nice.

There were miraculously seats booked next to each other at the volleyball (an arms dealer was somewhat outraged to find out that he and his mistress had been downgraded), and they chatted about every Olympics since 1896, and back again to Olympia, and not of anything of consequence, as Crowley warmed his cold blood in the summer sun and Aziraphale’s presence.

Crowley could still feel the angel’s grip on his sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Aziraphale quotes lyrics from the Pet Shop Boys’ song 'Your Funny Uncle'. It might mean he was more aware of contemporary music than he pretended to be. Or maybe not, as it wasn’t released for another four years.
> 
> 2) I just realised that Luke is the first character to have a speaking role other than the ineffable husbands.
> 
> 3) Edited to make it clear that the lad in question is not someone the reader is supposed to know. Of course it read that way. I do apologise.


	4. Not quite satisfactory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels love everyone.

“I feel,” Aziraphale said, “that despite my best influences, Warlock is growing up to be a tad disrespectful.”

Crowley grinned at him, slouching against the pub wall where he was pretending to take a smoking break. He had carefully chosen a position just inside the No Smoking boundary, although the smoke curling between his lips had nothing to do with the (unlit) cigarette between his hands. The smoke had a more sulphurous scent to it.

Aziraphale, with a disapproving glare, had set himself up just outside the line, and was reluctantly pretending to smoke himself. He hadn’t been able to argue that this was not a convenient setup for an accidental chat. Smokers crowded in sad huddled groups outside this even in horrible weather like this. Crowley guessed Aziraphale was still worried that they were tempting people into smoking. Which was precisely why he had chosen it as a rendezvous, not so much for the temptation as to be annoying. Annoying Aziraphale had become a habit.

“Disrespectful, rebellious–that’s my influence,” Crowley said, proudly. “Or that he takes after his Dad. Rebelling is what fallen angels do. Only to be expected.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, unhappily. He blew out a puff of smoke that smelled of incense and roses, and it formed, just for a moment, a heart. Crowley sent a more serpentine swirl out to coil around it before both vanished. “I suppose you of all people would know that. But my influence should be cancelling that out a little.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley said, although he was worried himself. Warlock, currently seven years old, had been taken on a holiday to Washington, and had whinged quite a lot rather than doing anything about it. What age was he supposed to show his powers? “Look, kid hasn’t killed anyone yet. We’re doing fine. He’s rather…” His face scrunched up with embarrassment at the word. “Sweet. In a sulky way.”

“I think he’s a little obnoxious,” Aziraphale confided. 

“Well, you like obnoxiousness in people, don’t you? Or is it just me?” He leered despite himself. Aziraphale spluttered, a delicate flush rising up from his neck, and Crowley laughed, suddenly feeling quite happy for no clear reason. “Come inside in the warm and have a drink.”

“I’m not sure we should be spending time together so openly. What if we’re recognised?”

Crowley shrugged. He was pretty sure he, at least, wasn’t recognisable as Nanny, at least not in these trousers. “All right, then, suit yourself.” He leaned back on the cold stone wall and glared at the black frost on the road. There was a roaring fire inside, he knew. He still made no attempt to leave the angel. “I hate the cold,” he muttered.

“Of course you do, you old snake,” Aziraphale said, genially. “Here.” He pulled off a pristine glove, and curled his fingers loosely around Crowley’s wrist.

The feeling was extraordinary. It prickled, like consecrated ground, and then the pain eased and warmth flooded up his arm, suffused him, surrounded him in a rosy glow. As the pins and needles faded, he noticed vaguely how very soft Aziraphale’s skin was.

When Aziraphale withdrew his hand, Crowley felt bereft, and slightly dizzy, but still warm. His breath–he decided that, actually, it might be for the best to consider breathing optional for a while, to minimise how much of a fool he felt. “Thankssss.” His voice hissed more than he meant it to. Something about feeling like he had more joints in his knees than usual for his humanoid form. Angelic influence smashing against demonic, he supposed. “Are you sure that was wise? You’re already getting censured for over-miracling without being a hot water borrle for a demon.”

“Oh, dear, I really didn’t think that through, did I?” Aziraphale looked distressed.

“The thought was apprecsssiated.” Maybe he would hiss less if he breathed more, after all. Why was this suddenly so complicated?

“Are you quite all right?”

“Fine.” Crowley crushed his unsmoked cigarette and threw in on the ground. Aziraphale gave him a reproachful look and picked it up. One point to each side. As usual.

“We should probably go our separate ways, though. It wouldn’t do to bring suspicion onto ourselves.”

“It’s _fine._ Look, we’re in a back alley next to a pub. If anyone spots us, just drop to your knees and they’ll be too embarrassed to look closely,” Crowley said, in pure revenge for how unsettled he was feeling.

Aziraphale’s back straightened even further, and his eyelashes fluttered. “I have no idea what you are implying.” 

“Lying is a sin, angel.” The grin crept across his face.

“You’d know more about that than me.”

“Lying? Or the other?” The grin increased.

“Both,” Aziraphale said firmly. “They’re more in your line.”

Crowley thought for a moment that he should point out that he knew less than Aziraphale might think about the… other. Not nothing, but it was more effective to tempt humans into doing things to and with each other–the fact that any sin was with a wily demon might tend to weigh the balance in favour of their innocence. And on a personal level, humans died too fast to get too attached to, Crowley had no idea if he could get them pregnant, and wasn’t keen on finding out. Besides, there was too much chance of them noticing too much about his tongue, or trying to get him to take off his shoes and dark glasses in bed. That could lead to all kinds of unwanted complications.

He looked at Aziraphale’s pursed lips and the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and decided against saying anything. Crowley was confused, oddly hopeful and depressed, which was an uncomfortable combination even without the weird angelic heat making him feel lightheaded.

Funny. He’d always remembered Heaven as a cold place.

“Just joking,” he said, letting the grin slip off his face. “Please come into the warm and have a drink. The tea and coffee here tastes like slime from Pandemonium, but they sell pretty good home made cakes, or so I’ve been told.”

This time, the angel acceded, the set of his back prim and offended. It might take a bit of cajoling to get him to soften up again. As they went through the door, Crowley placed a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s jacket, to guide him through the door, and not at all to feel another prickle of heat. 

He was a serpent, okay. He was allowed to seek warmth.

The coffee was, in fact, very bad indeed. Crowley thought about exchanging it for gin, then decided to keep his head clear. At least it was warm in his mouth. Aziraphale looked disapprovingly at the sad greyish tea bag in his teapot, and out of pure shame it turned itself gently uncurling Darjeeling leaves.

“Haven’t you been having fun, anyway?” Crowley asked, abruptly. “Digging around in the dirt, playing godfather.”

Azirphale brightened a little. “I do like plants. You’re right, it helps to talk to them.”

“You’re too soft on them,” Crowley grumbled. “No discipline.” He had to admit the garden just bloomed and bloomed around Arizaphale, and the strawberries grown there in were almost sinfully sweet, with just the right hint of bracing tartness. Also, they were still fruiting now, in the freezing cold of late spring.

“It’s nice being godfathers, too,” Aziraphale said, ignoring him. “Even if–well. I do find the child a little difficult to like. I suppose that makes sense. Even if I love everyone, naturally, it’s not unusual to find the Antichrist a little, well, challenging.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow above his glasses. It was the first time Aziraphale had admitted to less than an affection for Warlock. It felt a bit wrong, that Crowley had more fondness for the kid than Aziraphale did. Or was it? After all, Warlock was his own Master’s son. Still, Crowley suspected he was going soft. Something about the way the boy’s eyelashes fell on his cheeks when he snuggled off to sleep. He didn’t want to think about it, especially if Warlock would have to be killed someday.

“You can’t possibly love everyone,” he said, instead.

Aziraphale templed his fingertips. “I can, and I do,” he said smugly.

“You do not,” Crowley said disbelievingly.

“I assure you, it’s part of my job.”

“So you love Warlock, even if he’s obnoxious?”

“Yes. He is just an innocent child. Well, partly a child.”

“You love Gabriel?”

“Of course! He means the best. He’s only–a little conscientious.”

“You loved Caligula?”

“He just tragically lost his way. Thanks to the evil temptations of you and your ilk.” 

“Hey, don’t give me too much credit. Humans are good at coming up with this stuff themselves. Okay, then.” Crowley was oddly unwilling to admit defeat. “You love that… man over there vomiting in the corner and screaming that all women are cunts?”

Aziraphale’s fastidious brow crinkled, but he didn’t falter. “I do. He’s the Almighty’s creation. I just don’t love his behaviour.”

Crowley leaned back in his seat. “You’re lying, you know.”

“I am not.” Aziraphale took a sip of tea. “Oh, that’s so much better.”

Crowley suddenly felt he would do anything to disturb Aziraphale’s complacency. “You love people who break the spine of books to make them easier to open? And then fold the corners of the pages down to keep their place?”

The angel didn’t even falter, clearly thinking he was on a roll. “I do.”

In for a penny… Crowley turned his head and stared hard at the vomiting man.

“You love me?” he asked casually.

The tea cup was set down, with far more of a clatter than Aziraphale usually made. Crowley risked a glance. Aziraphale’s face was–Crowley couldn’t read it. Definitely not his usual expression. It was as if a storm had brewed up over the usual sunshine of his countenance.

“I g-guess that was too much.” Why was Crowley stammering? “Forget I asked.”

“I don’t know how you could possibly ask that in the first place,” Aziraphale said, very quietly.

Crowley wished a pit would open up beneath him. Even Dagon would be less painful company right now. He got up, moving less gracefully than usual. “Right. Well, you know. Awkward questions are my job. See you back in the garden, angel.”

He had no idea what to think, and his cheeks were flaming so hard that he barely felt the cold of the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Me: I'm going to write hot Aziraphale/Crowley. They should be making out by chapter two.
> 
> 2) Four chapters in, and we have a wrist touch.
> 
> 3) They'll get there.
> 
> 4) Thanks for all the encouragement. I guess I missed fandom more than I thought!


	5. All the way back home at midnight (you were sleeping on my shoulder)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bus to London.

Crowley was sure he should feel something–happiness? Relief?–at averting the Apocalypse. Mostly he just felt exhausted, and not very well. The strain of murdering a fellow demon, losing Aziraphale and then being found by him again, holding the Bentley together, that last miracle, fear, not having had a straight answer from Aziraphale about whether he was coming back to the flat, all coalesced into just feeling tired, very tired indeed.

Aziraphale and he were sitting together on the bus, though. Crowley felt dimly that was nice. They often met up on buses to exchange notes, talking over the back of seats, or standing together trying not to fall over, but this was the first time seated comfortably side by side, expecting a long journey together. It felt significant, although it probably wasn’t.

Fuck, he was tired.

The engine purred softly, the night landscape slipped past. He could hear the rustle of crisp packets, boring conversation, the driver’s radio playing something inane. Crowley kept expecting the singer’s voice to change to Freddie Mercury, or possibly Dagon, but it never did. Just remained a meaningless hum. He rubbed his temples.

“You can sleep, if you want,” Aziraphale said. “I know you enjoy it. And it’s been quite a long day.”

“Shouldn’t. Gotta think. Gotta figure things out,” he muttered.

“Leave it to me. I’m really quite intelligent, for a stupid angel.”

“Stupid angel,” Crowley agreed, already nearly asleep. It was a relief to leave everything in someone else’s hands. 

He woke when the fellow passengers had finally noticed that the bus wasn’t going to Oxford, and were raising objections with a confused driver. He didn’t stir. He could feel Aziraphale’s soft heat all down his side, and a comforting, warm weight through his trouser fabric, on his thigh.

Wait. Where had that come from, again?

He rolled his eyes carefully behind his glasses to check, making a point not to stir. There was a book in front of him. Aziraphale was clearly not worried enough about drawing attention to refrain from miracling up reading matter, although that was no guarantee of safety, as he couldn’t be trusted to see sense about books in any situation. The way Crowley was slumped against him, the pages were clearly visible, something impossibly dry about brutalist architecture. That was nice, Crowley thought confusedly. Brutalism was his work, after all, and Aziraphale had resented the existence of brutalist monasteries.

Aziraphale was only holding the book with one hand. His other rested casually on Crowley’s thigh. 

Okay, it was important to remember to breathe. Presumably, as long as he pretended to be asleep, he could just sit there for hours, and… Well. They were cramped into the seats. Possibly Aziraphale had nowhere comfortable to keep his hand so he had just put it on Crowley’s thigh for safekeeping, as it were. Corporeal forms were prone to irritations like pins and needles. It didn't mean anything.

He could shift in his sleep and cover Aziraphale’s hand with his own. Or at least put his hand next to it, so their skin would touch along the sides. For some reason, this seemed far more terrifying and intimate a proposition than anything he had ever suggested to a human. And he had suggested quite a lot. None of it, suddenly, felt as significant as imagining Azirphale’s prickly-hot skin next to his hand.

“I do wish they would stop arguing,” Aziraphale said, a little peevishly, and Crowley realised the angel knew he was awake. He straightened up in his seat, removing his head from Aziraphale’s shoulder, flushing. “It’s making it hard to read.”

“They’re a bit confused, to be fair.” The hand wasn’t moving.

“Such a fuss about nothing. The bus will take them to Oxford when they’ve dropped us off.”

“Perhaps they have loved ones waiting for them, and want to see them.” This was surreal. He was arguing with Aziraphale to be more sensitive to human emotions, and the angel’s hand was still resting on his thigh, as if it was perfectly normal and something he did all the time. The world was a new one, and it seemed to be spinning off its axis.

“Patience is a virtue,” Aziraphale said crossly, and Crowley grinned, happiness bubbling in his heart in a most undemonic way.

“Never mind, angel. So, where do you want to be dropped off?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Well, I am sure a room will come free at the Savoy. Not that I need to sleep, but I could do with somewhere private to organise my thoughts.”

“Offer’s still open.” Keep your voice causal, Crowley.

A sidelong glance, half stern, all twinkle. God, their faces were so close. Even in the artificial light of the bus, Azirphale’s lashes were golden. “Are you trying to tempt me with your infernal luxury, fiend?”

“You _adore_ luxury. The Savoy isn’t exactly a caravan site, you know. But I don’t know if you’d say my apartment was luxurious, really.” Except the throne, he thought guiltily. Maybe he should get rid of the throne before Aziraphale saw it. “It’s more modern industrial. Almost–”

Aziraphale glanced at his book. “Brutalist?”

“More contemporary than that. But I guess so, yes. I have caviar in the fridge,” he wheedled.

Aziraphale sighed and closed his book. “It couldn’t hurt to expand my horizons, I suppose.”

Crowley hadn’t even realised he had tensed until he relaxed back into a slouch. It felt like an incredible victory. “Right,” he said casually. “You’ll like the greenery, anyway. Just don’t be too soft on them, or I’ll have to make them pay for it later.”

Maybe he still had time to miracle away the throne.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Aziraphale seemed to dismiss the thought. “Oh, well, it’s probably for the best. Do you have reference books on–oh, of course not.”

“I have the internet. Plenty of books on the internet. Plenty of reference material on the internet, even religious stuff,” said Crowley, although he mostly used the internet to convince people to get into fights on social media. He’d seen the potential in the internet as soon as he’d heard of it and was right into bulletin boards, inventing spam. He had never thought to get a modem or data plan or, indeed, a telephone line, but it worked perfectly anyway.

“But the internet is so _slow_. ”

“Only because you bought your computer in the eighties, and it was a piece of rubbish then. It’s a miracle you can go online at all.”

“Possibly, possibly,” Aziraphale conceded guiltily.

I’ll buy him a better computer, Crowley thought in a rush of generous feeling. Something with massive brainpower, like his. Something that will store all the books in the world. And a mobile phone, so I can always reach him. He’ll miss his shop at first, but he’ll have fun looking for a new collection, and the computer will help. We can rebuild. If we live to do so.

He was acutely conscious of the warmth on his thigh. He’d be damned–saved– _something_ if he was going to let them be separated or die, now that things like this were happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Just a small update before the weekend, when I am unlikely to have time to write. I will get back to the fallout from Crowley's needling about angelic love next chapter. It's not like this thing is linear any way.
> 
> 2) Chapter title from the Pet Shop Boys' "Liberation." I don't know why I associate the PSBs with Good Omens almost as much as I do with Queen--perhaps because I listened to them so much while reading it, back in the day. On my off-brand Walkman. Gosh. Anyway, the song came up on my playlist, this chapter happened.


	6. A nice tea party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nanny and a gardener have tea.

**Four years ago**

Crowley avoided Aziraphale for a while by the simple expedient of staying indoors and going nowhere near the saved gardener. It was a pain tottering around the garden in snakeskin stilettos anyway.

The problem was that staying in character as Nanny Astoreth all the time was tiring. Crowley had never really prided himself on his work ethic. The role of disciplinarian nanny had certain possibilities, but he couldn't even tempt his employers too much without risking losing his job. He wasn't keen on having to explain to Hell why he was no longer Influencing Warlock for the bad. Worst of all, no matter how many unsavoury implications he made or how many sinister giggles passed his lips, the household insisted on treating him as if he was just a nice lady.

Sometimes he needed to be with someone who recognised a serpent when he met one.

Champion sulker that Crowley was, he was beginning to realise he needed to concede for his own good, or at least comfort. So, his tender feelings had been bruised. He wasn't technically supposed to have tender feelings, anyway. And over the millennia, surely he should have realised that baiting an angel could be dangerous. Aziraphale could be ridiculously kind and ludicrously fussy, but he wasn't _harmless_.

Besides, ever since that conversation with Aziraphale, Warlock had been concerning Crowley.

"You have Starscream, sweetheart, and I'll have Optimus Prime. Now, Optimus has established what he thinks is a utopia for all machinekind, but it doesn't have true free will, because everyone is forced to be good. What do you want to do about it?"

"I don't want to be Starscream, Nanny. I don't like his dumb voice. Hey, what does this one turn into?"

"A gun, darling."

"No, that's Megatron."

"Is it? Shall we play with Megatron, then?" Crowley asked hopefully. "Look, here's some sweet little teddies. Oh, no, they're not keeping their tea party very tidy, are they? I think Megatron should shoot them all and start over with new teddies, don't you?"

"A police car! Cool! Vroom, vroom..."

Yes, Crowley was beginning to worry. And there was only one being he was accustomed to worrying _at_.

He made a point of digging his stiletto heels into the velvety emerald lawn all the way down to the gardener's hut.

"I do have some things to do on my afternoon off, dear b--lady," Aziraphale said. "Reports to write." It was clearly only a token protest. He had positively beamed when Crowley suggested afternoon tea. He had almost, well, almost looked _relieved_ for a moment, and then rays of sunshine had exploded out of his expression. It was almost too much for a demon to look at, even with the terrible disguise.

"Come, Francis," Crowley said. "What's the fun of working here without a little _fraternising_ between the staff?" He stressed it maliciously, and the sunlight in the angel's expression faded a little. To his own annoyance, Crowley felt regret, as well as a little vindictive pleasure.

"I am a man of the cloth, you know, temptress."

"You're no more a man than I am. Come have lunch, idiot."

They climbed to the empty top of a bus together. They glances around for witnesses and then, with sighs of relief, settled back into what were, if not their true forms, at least ones they had been accustomed to wearing for thousands of years.

"That's better." Crowley stretched his shoulders. "Bless, women's clothes this century are uncomfortable." He wriggled his feet, the heels withdrawing back into them.

"They don't have to be. You're the one who chose the tight skirts and stockings."

"I have a certain image to keep up."

"Vanity is a deception. True beauty shines from goodness within."

"I'm a _demon_ , Aziraphale."

"I apologise. Inconsiderate of me."

"It doesn't matter. I like this form of yours better than the monk, anyway." Crowley risked a sideways glance at him, as plump and golden as an angel by Verrochio. He wasn't entirely convinced vanity had no part in Aziraphale's choice of earthly habitation. He felt scrawny and insignificant beside his companion, although he was rather fancying himself in a man bun these days.

"I must admit I am more used to you in this form, too."

Crowley looked quickly away, trying not to react to the warmth in Aziraphale's voice. It wasn't fair of Aziraphale to speak and look so fondly, not after their last disastrous encounter.

They disembarked near a hotel which offered the better sort of high tea, although Aziraphale always argued that high tea should not involve dainty treats but plain solid food, the main meal of the day for working men. He always ate the delicacies with relish, anyway. Crowley was aware of, and filed away in the part of his brain for things he didn't want to think about much, that he spent quite a lot of time thinking of things the angel would relish. It was for easing the Arrangement, not because he liked watching Aziraphale enjoy things and ran the memories over in his brain again late at night.

He didn't raise any awkward subjects until the sandwiches had been followed by scones, and Aziraphale, eyes gleaming, was helping himself to the cakes on the top tier.

"I don't have any beauty at all?"

Aziraphale's raised eyebrows said all too clearly, _Really, Crowley?_ and the demon bit into a slice of devil's food cake.

"Forget I asked," he said around the crumbs. "So, do you have any plans for when the shit hits the fan?"

"I don't see why it should. It's an excellent plan."

"Yeah, I know. It was mine. Warlock wouldn't kill his teddy bears with his Transformers."

"I should hope not! We had a little talk about the endangered animals of the world only yesterday."

"I hope that's it," Crowley said, glumly.

He looked across the room. There were a couple of middle-aged women sitting at an outdoor table, despite the cold. They were frumpily dressed, wrapped in scarves, and laughing as if they were the happiest humans in the world. The one with short hair had tinted pink glasses on, and as Crowley watched, the fatter woman reached across and pulled the glasses off, to kiss her companion lightly on the lips. She replaced the glasses, the ring on her finger catching the sunlight for a moment, and Crowley found the exact subject he had been determined not to broach coming out of his mouth.

"About what I said last time--"

"Crowley." Aziraphale templed his fingers and sighed. "I'm a creature of love. It's my job description. But you--you're in a special position. You're my Adversary."

"Sure. A creature of love," Crowley mumbled, staring at the couple. Stupid humans. They only lived a century at best, but look at them, as if they had all the time in the world. It made him want to slither across and bite them.

"You were too, once."

"I hardly remember it."

"Y-you could be again?"

Crowley looked back. Aziraphale was sitting very straight, hands folded primly, shoulders back, and a strangely frightened expression on his face, as if he was doing something he had been rehearsing for days--no, years--maybe centuries, and was terrified but determined.

" _Now_ , angel? After all this time?" Crowley felt rage building in his heart. "You're trying to save me _now_?"

"I know, I just know, that deep down there is still some goodness in you." Aziraphale's voice came out in a rush. "I could help you. Forgiveness is for everyone."

"Not without repentance," Crowley said harshly.

"You're not at all sorry? Not after all this time?"

"Not enough, and I won't ever be. And you know She could tell if I was sincere." Crowley pushed his plate back. "Can we not fucking talk about this?"

"I'm sorry." Aziraphale looked completely downcast. There were--yes, surely there were tears on those golden lashes. For a moment, just a moment, Crowley asked himself whether he could. To stop Aziraphale from looking so blessedly heartbroken. So he could stop being the Adversary, and be Aziraphale's brother in wings.

Brother? Was that really what he wanted? He glanced across to the couple outside, but they had left, and his heart writhed and hurt in his chest.

"Look, angel," he said, more gently. "A harp and a trumpet never suited me. And besides, you don't want that."

"When have you ever known or cared what I wanted?" It was strange, hearing such bitterness from Aziraphale. Crowley shook his head to clear it.

"Say I was hit by a bout of repentence, and was taken back. Well, I wouldn't be needed on Earth. That's a Principality's duty. I'd be back in the ranks of the bloody boring Seraphim, flying around singing _glory, glory, glory_ all day, and you'd be down here. Alone. Or with whoever was sent to replace me. Can you imagine trying to get drunk with Mestama?"

Aziraphale shuddered.

"Right. So, angel, don't mess with what works. Keep your eye on the Antichrist, keep this world alive, and neither of us have to worry about Heaven _or_ Dys."

There was an unhappy silence. Crowley ached and felt hot, on every level, as if he had just run a marathon and stupidly hadn't stripped naked first. Sweat trickled down his neck.

Aziraphale's smooth hand was curled on the table, the perfectly filed nails hidden, as if they were clenched into his palm. Crowley hesitated a moment.

This was more terrifying than Falling. This was worse than facing a witch burning with a priest holding holy water, and even then, he had kind of known Aziraphale would turn up to help him. This was the most terrifying thing he'd ever done in his life.

He gently laid his hand beside Aziraphale's. He had intended to cover Aziraphale's hand with his own, to communicate all the things he was incapable of saying, but his courage failed him at the last moment. Instead just put his hand on the tablecloth next to the angel's hand, close enough that their skin brushed together.

It hurt, again. The holiness burning him even with that little contact. A clean pain, though, almost a pleasurable one, and then his senses adjusted and he could feel their skin, that tiny amount of contact, an angel and a demon touching each other and neither combusting--well, at least in any outward way.

Aziraphale turned his hand over, and his fingers very gently curled over and between Crowley's, just the first joints. His fingertips were slightly greasy with butter.

Okay, maybe Crowley really was going to combust.

He sat frozen, terrified of disturbing Aziraphale and making him withdraw his hand, terrified of saying something and making this stop happening, terrified of--

He was a demon. A fucking demon. And maybe fucking was the word, because he was incapable of sitting there almost holding hands and not having all kinds of impure desires welling up inside of him, desires that would send the angel running in a second if he knew all the suddenly explicit thoughts in his head.

He pulled his hand away and said "Right, we should be heading back to servitude," as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Right," said Aziraphale, and Crowley didn't dare look to see what his expression was like.

**The Last Day**

The bus pulled over in front of the block of flats where Crowley lived. There was no stop there, and in fact a few minutes ago there had been no space at the side of the road for a bus, but it pulled over anyway, to the confusion of the driver.

Aziraphale removed his hand from Crowley's thigh and said brightly, "Is this your place? Right, then."

"Right," said Crowley, and they disembarked, as if nothing unusual had happened.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I remember reading Good Omens and thinking that the Transformers references were already dated, like something from my childhood. Now it's 2019, and I have a son about Warlock's age in this scene who plays complicated private games with Transformers. Some things are apparently eternal.
> 
> 2) I am specifically thinking of "Tobias and the Angel" by Verocchio, here, with its satisfyingly solid angel thighs and soft face. Maybe Aziraphale modeled for it.
> 
> 3) Most of this fanfic is written in a beautiful minimalist app called Calmly Writer, but for this chapter I switched to Typora, which is also beautiful and minimalist. Not sure why I am sharing this except that I am obsessed with writing software--my all time favourites are Ulysses and Bibisco, but I am always experimenting. A writing angel loses his wings every time you use Word or Pages, just saying.
> 
> 4) Guess I made a weekend update after all. Thanks again for all the support, it keeps me motivated. Although I am having so much fun here.


	7. Some rather nice cheese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only proper thing to do after saving the world is to make fondue.

"So this is where you live." Aziraphale's voice was genial, and he was smiling as he took in the fashionably stark grey of the Mayfair flat, but was an odd expression in his pale blue eyes. Judging, and almost pitying, as if Crowley had come up short in understandable and expected ways. "Charming."

"Shut up," Crowley said. "We can't all live in a mouldering fire haz--" His brain caught up with his mouth, which opened and closed soundlessly for a bit. "Um. Sorry. Um, want something to drink? I think we both deserve champagne after saving the world."

He went into his spotless kitchen and pulled some Krug from his wine rack. And caviar, he had promised Aziraphale caviar. He shoved some in a bowl, hesitated for a moment, and decided to slosh some of the champagne into some grated cheese and stuff in a caquelon. Absolutely because Aziraphale would be peckish after a long day, and not to give himself something to do to delay going back into the main room.

Fondue had been one of Crowley's favourite bits of the 1970s. Amazing what temptations humans could get up to all by themselves while feeding each other alcohol spiked cheese or chocolate. For a moment a vision passed before his eyes, of Aziraphale leaning forward obediently, lips parted, waiting for a forkful to be fed to him. Crowley clamped down on the thought, hissing to himself, and grabbed some french bread. He was glad he'd thought to buy bread a few days ago, or perhaps weeks. Or months. He wasn't sure. That's what he owned a bread safe for, to keep bread perfectly fresh.

He picked up the fondue and caviar, and headed back out.

Aziraphale had figured out the sound system somehow, and music was pouring out of it, something with trickling luscious harps and soaring violins. Of course. Angels and their music. How cliche.

Crowley's particular angel was standing, staring at the eagle plinth. He turned, and his expression was almost terrifyingly gentle. "Oh, my _dear_. Is this really...?"

"Couldn't resist some blasphemy, keeping part of a church in here. Besides, the place was bombed out, they wouldn't miss it." Crowley avoided Aziraphale's eyes, despite a suspicion that they had tears in them. Bloody sentimental angel. "Grub's up." He dropped the caquelon and bread on the coffee table, and turned back for the champagne.

"Aren't we going to eat in the dining room?"

Crowley blanched, thinking of the throne. Would he sit in it? Would Aziraphale? Would they both sit on ordinary chairs and pretend it wasn't there? Why did he have multiple chairs anyway? It's not as if he ever brought anyone back to the flat. Until now. "No. Um. No. You wouldn't like it."

Aziraphale hummed, but conceded. "Full of Satanic ritual torture implements, I expect." He dropped onto the couch. "This looks scrumptious."

"Thought we could do with some carbs for energy," Crowley said, as if it actually made any difference to their mortal forms. "Get our brains stimulated so we know what to do when the reports go back."

"That's all right," Aziraphale said serenely, taking a sip of champagne. "I worked it out while you were asleep. Ooh, the bubbles are tickling my nose."

"Y-you have? What?"

"I told you I was quite intelligent. We'll talk about it after supper, my dearest."

Crowley dipped some bread into fondue, hoping to speed things up, and had bitten into it before he registered the final syllable. He nearly choked. That-- _that_ was new.

"Are you all right, Crowley? The cheese is quite hot." Aziraphale speared some bread.

"Fine," he spluttered, crumbs flying around his immaculate room.

"Too familiar?" Aziraphale produced a napkin from somewhere and dabbed at Crowley's mouth. Crowley wasn't aware he even owned napkins, let alone duck egg blue ones. They weren't his aesthetic. He felt a bit like Warlock, except that hopefully Warlock had less of a problem with his bones turning to liquid fire when Crowley cleaned his face.

"No, not at all." Crowley decided not to pretend he didn't know what Aziraphale was talking about for once. "Just unexpected."

"Well." Aziraphale was looking studiously away from him, the napkin put away. The angel sipped his champagne. "You said, earlier today, that you stayed on Earth because you lost your best friend."

"Yeah. Um. Only he came back."

Aziraphale sloshed the champagne around in his flute, watching the bubbles in the golden liquid. "And I suppose I am not being presumptuous in assuming you meant me."

"You have plenty of friends, angel. Bibliophiles and do-gooders and all sorts. I have acquaintances, targets and _you_. Of course I bloody meant you." Crowley didn't know where to look. He looked at Aziraphale's champagne. He wished he was drunk already. The music was too beautiful, it was making him maudlin. He almost missed _Queen's Greatest Hits_.

"After all, I suppose you were intending on abandoning everyone else to die on Earth or in the celestial war," Aziraphale said, a trifle censoriously. 

"I'm a demon. What do you expect?"

"But not me."

"No. I'm on _our_ side. Always have been, really, since you gave away that flaming sword." The words were at the same time hard to get out, and tumbling over each other.

Aziraphale abruptly drained his glass. No savouring of taste, no giggles over bubbles. Crowley did the same. "So, under the circumstances, I thought it might be... appropriate... to express that you are more dear to me than any others." The angel put the champagne flute down rather less gracefully than usual, the rim clattering on the table. "I'm sorry that I have been a little slow about admitting to it. It's just that, well... I know you of old, serpent. I know when you are trying to tempt me away from my loyalty to Heaven. As I said, I am quite intelligent."

Crowley's blood, which had been warm and golden as melting honey, froze in his veins, hurting him. "You thought I wanted to add another fallen angel to the ranks. I suppose I would get one hell of a commendation."

"I apologise. I am also, as you said, stupid." They stared at the fondue together, at the flickering flame of the candle. Tiny, bright, and a reminder of hellfire.

"It was never about that." Crowley took a deep breath. "I wanted you to be loyal to _me_."

"Yes, well. And here we are. I don't think Heaven considers me particularly loyal right now."

"Here we are." And where were they? Crowley thought wildly. Sitting side by side in the flat, not looking at each other, not touching, eating fondue of all things, he must be insane, while Heaven and Hell discussed their fate. He supposed they were officially best-- _dearest_ \--friends now, after all these thousands of years. And what did that mean?

Crowley was more dear to Aziraphale than anyone else. It was more than he had ever really hoped he would hear aloud. His heart felt like it was bursting and his wings were going to break out of his back at any moment. Surely that was enough, more than enough, more than any demon ever had a right to expect from an angel in a state of Grace.

He felt oddly like dissolving into very human and very uncool tears, as the music swelled around him.

It was only later, when he had left Aziraphale in the living room with a miraculously produced book, and was tossing and turning in his bed, trying to fall asleep and not frantically imagine an angel calling him 'dearest' and having a hand on his thigh in all kinds of different situations and stages of undress, that he realised something that had been nagging at the edge of his consciousness ever since he heard the music Aziraphale had chosen. He knew what it was.

Nino Rota. The love theme from _Romeo and Juliet_.

Oh--

\-- _Hell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) A short update. But I hope it is worth it.
> 
> 2) Written on OmPad. Almost perfect browser writing app, but doesn't have markdown.


	8. A nice day in Australia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not the first time they have swapped bodies.

**Victoria, Australia, 1906**

Crowley had dedicated much care to the growing of a proper beard, neatly parted in the middle. Perhaps the parting had been a mistake, or the brilliantine, or the black riding leggings. Humans here tended to snigger a bit and ask him if he was here for the colonial experience. 

Or perhaps it was because he kept falling off his bloody horse. He glared after the cloud of dust heading to the horizon. Time to look into one of these autocar inventions. At least it wouldn't whicker at him as if it was laughing. 

He heard the rumble of a cart, and raised a hand. Bit of luck, someone happening along in this benighted dirt track, although it wasn't the fellows he had arranged to meet. They would be in the next township still. 

"Want a lift, sir? Oh. Oh dear." 

Crowley stared up at a pink and white face under a broad felt hat, soft blonde curls plastered against it by sweat, bright blue eyes. "Aziraphale, is that you?"

To Crowley's surprise, Aziraphale clicked his tongue and the horse started up again.

"Oh, no you don't!" Crowley lunged forward and swung himself up beside Aziraphale just in time. "You're not leaving me here in the middle of the bush. Something might happen to me. Or I might happen to someone. It's your job to thwart that."

"It's not as if you're stuck," Aziraphale said snippily. "Miracle yourself back to London."

"Why, what have I done wrong?" Crowley raised an eyebrow, and Aziraphale sighed. "I mean, lately. Look, angel, I won't bring up wanting that stuff again. I'll fraternise all you want. Come _on,_ " he wheedled. 

Aziraphale looked away guiltily. "I am sorry, my dear boy. There's really nothing up ahead, though, and I doubt you'd be comfortable back at the Mission with me. Too holy. Much, much too holy. So if you'd like to be on your way..."

Crowley stared suspiciously at him. "If I remember correctly, the Mission is several hours behind us. Where are you going?" He craned over his shoulder to see what was in the back, but there were only a few heaps of blankets. "What are you doing in Australia anyway? I thought you hated Australia. Too hot, and too many snakes."

"I don't mind _some_ snakes," Aziraphale said softly. "I might even miss having them around."

"Now, don't try to get around me like that, angel," Crowley said, trying not to notice his battered soul suddenly singing in suspiciously celestial notes. "What mischief are you up to?"

"I should be asking you that question. Mischief is in your line, not mine."

Crowley shrugged, trying not too obviously to taste the air with his tongue. There was something up. Some scent that wasn't the menthol of the eucalyptus trees or the dusty baked earth under the sun or an overheated horse. There was the scent of fresh rain with a hint of incense and--oh, no, that one was Aziraphale. But confused by these other strong scents was something warm and human, that seemed too recent to be just residual human contact.

"Last bushranger was hanged a few year ago. Seems a waste of a poetic concept. There's a few likely lads in the next township, was going to suggest to them how very, very nice the Squatter's horses are, and how he would hardly miss some. Now, your turn."

"I suppose you wouldn't believe I came here to thwart your evil wiles?" Aziraphale asked hopelessly.

"Considering you didn't know I was here, not likely. Come on. You can tell _me_."

A blanket moved, and Crowley's hand snaked out to twitch it aside. Aziraphale's plump hands moved fast, far faster than he looked capable of, and replaced it. It was too late. Crowley had spotted a pair of big brown eyes, and was making sense of the shapes in the back. "You've got kids in the back! You have, haven't you? What are you playing at?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Come on, children, you can come out now," he said, in a language that was neither English nor Latin. "He's a friend."

Four small figures crept out. One, the smallest, with the biggest eyes, gave Crowley a wary look, then slid between him and Aziraphale, taking the angel's hand in her tiny one. Crowley readjusted his dark glasses and tried not to look too terrifyingly demonic by comparison to Aziraphale, who was radiating avuncular affection down at her.

"I'm just taking them home to their family," the angel said, a little defiantly.

"Oh," Crowley, remembering things he'd heard about kids of mixed heritage brought to the Mission. He hadn't paid much attention, far too busy listening for rumours of potential bushrangers and sampling the beer from around here. "I'm assuming you didn't get permission first."

A small boy was giving him a suspicious glare. Aziraphale, abandoning the reigns altogether, reached back to give him a reassuring pat. "Heaven gave me a commendation, Crowley!" Aziraphale's outrage bubbled up. "Uriel had decorated it with little gold stars herself. Loads of heathen savages brought up as good little Christians."

"So you thought you'd pop down to see what you had supposedly achieved?"

"Naturally." Aziraphale's usually generous lips were set in a firm line. 

Crowley sighed. The three older human children had settled down properly. He recognised the expression on their faces. Trust. He was supposed to take advantage of trust, and corrupt it. But not so young, surely. The eldest had to be six. "You realise you're interfering with their religious education? All this is part of your lot's plan, right? Get the Good Book into them young and early, avoid any conflicting influences."

"I know," Aziraphale said, miserably. "But they need their mother, and I just thought--" He was so sweetly wretched in his guilt, so reminiscent of millennia ago, an angel in white robes admitting to having given away a sword, of being more decent than obedient. 

Crowley couldn't resist tormenting him more. "And I'm sure their mother can always have more children to replace them." He regretted it immediately when the little girl burst into tears. "Oh, hell."

"Watch your language," Aziraphale said automatically.

"Never mind my language. You're the nice one, cheer her up!"

Aziraphale produced a sweet from somewhere, and the child reverted to happy sucking, her brothers shyly holding out hands for their own treats, giving blinding smiles of thanks. Aziraphale beamed like a small golden sun god, dispensing sweets. Crowley helped himself to one too. It tasted of mint, and strangely reminiscent of heaven.

"They need their mother," Aziraphale said, quietly and stubbornly. "And their father, and their cousins, and their people."

"You can't save them all."

"I know."

The cart travelled on, the heat becoming more and more smothering. Crowley was glad the children didn't have to get back under the blankets. Humans were so vulnerable to heat. 

He wondered where they were going, and how far. He'd dismissed the thought of meeting up with the O'Leary brothers and tempting them to horse rustling. He was far more interested in what the angel was up to. Small rebellions, small sins that somehow seemed to come from goodness rather than righteousness. Things that somehow added up to _his Aziraphale._. His personal angel.

"Oh _dear_." Aziraphale's brow creased under his hat.

There was the sound of horses behind, still out of sight for now. Much faster horses than the one pulling the cart. "I was afraid this would happen."

The children were sitting up now, rigid with terror. The eldest one asked, timidly, "Mr Fell?"

"Everything will be all right, sweetie," Aziraphale said, with false cheerfulness. "Oh dear."

Crowley made a sudden decision. "Yes, it will." He turned to the angel. "Look, you've done some pretty big thwarting today. Prevented two young lads falling into a life of crime and horse stealing. Start composing memos in your head. No one could blame you for being kidnapped by a bushranging demon, and having your cart stolen, when you were just taking some kids for a ride."

"But Crowley--"

"I'm all right. I managed to prevent three kids being brought up as good Christians. Three little ticks on my record."

"How?"

"Hold my hand."

" _What?_ "

Crowley turned to the fascinated kids, and pulled off his glasses. They stared, unblinking and curiously unafraid, at his golden eyes and slitted pupils.

"Mr Fell here and me, we're going to do some _magic._ Want to see?"

They nodded, their own eyes wide.

"Good." He turned back to Aziraphale. "Look--hold my hand. And think of good memories of me." Aziraphale's face was rigid. "Oh, come on. You must have some good memories."

"Yes," Aziraphale said carefully. "Yes, I suppose I do, really."

"Then concentrate." He seized Aziraphale's hand before he could lose courage.

By Satan, it *hurt*. Pain lanced up his arm. Aziraphale was wincing. Crowley ignored it and focused on his memories. Aziraphale, laughing guiltily on the western wall of Eden. Putting his wing up to cover him. Smiles--a thousand smiles. The way his eyes lit up when he discovered a new taste, new music, a new sensation in this glorious human world. The way he would glance sideways and shuffle a bit when he was feeling really, really tempted. The way he would lick the last crumb from his lips, savouring every experience that came his way. The way he would sometimes look at Crowley as if he, a demon, was something revelatory and beautiful...

He could feel his body changing, softening, filing out, his beard vanishing.

"Gosh," said a yellow eyed demon with a stylishly parted beard. 

"Fuck," Crowley agreed cheerfully. "Oh yeah, your skin is like velvet, angel." He ran his fingers over his newly plump forearm, wondering what other delights he was wearing.

"Stop that!"

The kids were grinning with delight. "You swapped!" said the middle kid. " _Deadly._ "

"That's right. Now, my scaly friend here is going to take you home," Crowley said. "I don't know the way." He passed Aziraphale his gun. "Me, I'm going to walk for a bit. I was held up by a bushranger, you see."

Aziraphale was hesitating, fiddling with the gun in his hands. It was odd, seeing such complicated feelings on what Crowley's mind registered as his own face.

"They'll send trackers."

"Don't worry. By the time I've been at the Mission for a while, they won't remember the children _or_ nice Mr Fell. No records."

"Oh, I do hope you don't do anything too dreadful to them," said Crowley/Aziraphale, without too much fervour.

"Memory wipes and fiddling with the books only," Crowley promised.

"Crowley..."

It was a strange sensation, seeing his own sharp face transformed by that gentle adoring glow, by Aziraphale's trick of looking at someone as if they were the most beautiful and magical person in the universe. Almost unbearable. Crowley reached forward and placed his dark glasses on his--Azira--someone's face to block the gaze.

"Look, you owe me. No more sulking and refusing to talk to me for years. You can get me me a beer." Aziraphale shuddered. "It's quite good beer here! All right. Wine. Back in London. But we need to meet up _soon_ to switch back. I can't be risk being seen as an angel too often. And it's your treat."

Aziraphale nodded happily. "Crowley, my dear, this is such a nice--"

"Don't you _dare_ say it. Bye, kids, behave for Uncle Crowley. Say hi to your mum." The children gave him bewildered, but enchanting, smiles, which totally didn't warm the cockles of his demonic heart. He swung himself off the cart, listening it rumbling off, and prepared himself to look properly despondent and defeated.

Even though his treacherous heart was leaping. Maybe it was because, for the first time in a very, very long time, his heart was technically that of an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This is the final flashback/breather before the occult/ethereal boys pass the point of no return. I need them to get together just as badly as Crowley does, by this point.  
> 2) The last Australian bushrangers were the Kennith brothers. Patrick was hanged in 1903.  
> 3) The Victorian Aboriginal Protection Act (1869) gave authorities the ability to take Aboriginal children, primarily of mixed heritage, and place them in church-run missions before Australia as a country had even federated. It's one of the most shameful parts of our history, and continued into the 1970s.  
> 4) Deep thanks to my friend Tabs for checking I got this chapter right.  
> 5) Thanks again for all the support! If I haven't replied to a comment, it's only by oversight, and because I read it on my phone and meant to reply later. It's read and appreciated.


	9. Priorities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is the best at keeping his priorities straight. Crowley is better at temptation.

Crowley awoke to the delicious smell of frying bacon. He let the knowledge waft over him with the scent. Someone who was not him was in the flat, cooking him breakfast. It had literally never happened since he moved to Mayfair in 1861. He allowed himself a few minutes to forget about impeding doom and just grin like an idiot.

Then he followed the alluring smell. Aziraphale had produced an apron, apparently from the ether, and was bustling over the stove. "About time you got up, Crowley."

"Why? Do we have plans? The whole Antichrist thing was yesterday's news, surely?" The scene was so ludicrously domestic that Crowley resisted the ridiculous urge to slouch over and kiss the angel on the cheek.

"We're in the lull before the storm, but I don't know how long Adam will hold them off," Aziraphale said, matter of factly. "We would do well to have a good breakfast inside of us before we face the day." 

"A last breakfast? And do I smell coffee? I _don't_ , do I? If it's my last breakfast, at least let there be coffee. Please."

"I have no idea how to work that monster of a espresso machine. There's tea." Aziraphale moved the eggs and bacon to a warming plate. "And it won't be our last breakfast. I told you, I worked it out, and we'll discuss it after breakfast."

"Coffee," Crowley said, equally firmly, waving an empty cup under the huge, shining espresso machine. It filled with perfect coffee, rich and dark and fragrant. He mostly had the espresso machine because he felt someone with his kind of flat should have one, but he'd never felt the need to work out how to use it properly, clean it, service it or even refill it with coffee beans. He had paid good—or at least expensive—money for it to make excellent coffee, so it did. "Then breakfast. Then tea and answers. And possibly alcohol, depending on what the answers are."

"Go sit down and I'll bring it in. No, not here. You have a perfectly serviceable dining room." Aziraphale returned his attention to arranging plates on a tray, and added, very quietly, "Your Majesty."

"I hate you, angel."

"No, you don't." Aziraphale gave him a smile of pure sunshine. "Go sit down, dearest."

Crowley, rendered completely defenceless, went to sit down before his legs failed him. Bloody angel. That had to constitute an unfair verbal attack. Unfair smiling attack. Definitely something unfair. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and realised he had automatically thrown himself on the throne. _Bless._ He decided to make the best of it and sprawl demonically. At least he could try to look cool about it. Or sexy. Something.

Aziraphale glided into the room and served the food with as much graceful economy of movement as a waiter in the best of establishments. Crowley supposed he'd had plenty of chances to observe them. He didn't mention the throne, or the sprawl, but Crowley had his suspicions of a mocking twinkle in those blue eyes.

He couldn't help an anxious glance at the television, but the screen remained blank. Not broodingly blank, either, as if Hell was lurking behind it. Just switched off because he wasn't watching anything at the moment. Crowley relaxed and ate. Breakfast was really very, very good, bacon crisp, eggs with firm whites and perfectly runny yolks, bread fried to just the right decadent texture. Of course it was. Aziraphale was meticulous about these things.

He was glad Aziraphale saved his plan until afterwards, because it would have completely spoiled the meal.

"I don't like it." He leapt to his feet, arms swinging wildly, as if trying to escape him. "What if it doesn't work?"

"It worked before."

"But what if you're wrong?" He spun Aziraphale's chair towards him and grasped his shoulders, glaring down into his face, trying to communicate his desperation. "Aziraphale, you have no idea what it's like down there. I can't let you go there. Not _you_. Demons have no imagination, oh, no. Can't come up with creative tortures. Unless humans come up with them and then some stupid fucking idiot writes them down in memos and sends them to Hell! With illustrations by Hieronymus Bosch!"

Aziraphale flinched a little, but remained calm. "It would be all right, you know, dearest. My side wouldn't let me stay there for an eternity."

"You can't be sure."

"Perhaps not. But am I supposed to let it happen to you instead?" Close as they were, Crowley could see there were tears on Aziraphale's lashes, although his jaw was set firmly. "Impossible, my dear boy. Put it right out of your mind." 

" _Yes,_ you are supposed to let it happen to me! It was part of my deal when I fell. Eternal torment and all that. Look—get me some more holy water. Worst comes to the worst, I'll take the easy way out and swallow it. I've had a good six thousand years. A _terrific_ six thousand years."

"No, Crowley. I would _not_ put you in harm's way unless I was sure. I understand Agnes and how her mind worked. I know what she was telling me. You have to trust me, my dear."

"It's not about trust!" Crowley let go of him and spun on his heel, wishing he was wearing his sunglasses. Some eye shields would come in handy right about now.

He heard Aziraphale push the chair back and move to the window, opening the shade. "It's a beautiful morning, Crowley. A beautiful world. It's alive, it's full of potential, and it's at least partly because of us. Agnes knew this. She wouldn't sacrifice us without an attempt to save us." They stood in silence. "If it's not about trust, what is it?" 

"What do you _think_?" Before he could register what he was doing, he was across the room, leaning against Aziraphale's back, arms tight wrapped tightly around his chest, head buried on the soft, plump shoulder, right where the wings would sprout. "What do you think, Aziraphale? Am I supposed to lose you again?"

"Oh, Crowley." Aziraphale's voice was very gentle.

They stayed there for what seemed like a long time, yet not long enough. Crowley let his heartbeat quieten, his breathing slow to match Aziraphale's, feeling like he was holding desperately tight to everything in Heaven and Hell and the whole vast Universe. Aziraphale was so solid and stable, so terribly warm, and hadn't he always craved stability and warmth, from the moment the Almighty had created him in the cold heavens? Crowley clung, dimly aware of the slow uncoiling of desire within him, of his body responding to the closeness by surging with lust, and not even caring if Aziraphale noticed. If he could only stay there forever and not have to let go...

"Trust me, my Crowley." Aziraphale's voice was barely above a whisper.

He surrendered. "Yes. Always."

Aziraphale carefully removed Crowley's arms from his chest, and turned. "Hold hands and think of happy memories?" His smile was made of fire that felt like it consumed Crowley's soul.

"Happy memories." _My dearest_ , he thought, holding tight to that memory. He extended his hand, and tried to answer the flaming smile with tenderness, as if they had changed roles.

Aziraphale's hand rose, then twitched back, the ethereal fire in his face dimming.

"What's wrong?" Crowley said sharply.

"Do we really have to hold hands?" Aziraphale was suddenly pink and fussy again, his hands clasping together defensively, looking away to the window.

Crowley felt as if he had been punched in the gut. His hand fell back to his side, and he turned half away, consciously loose in his hips, casual. "It seems easiest. Skin contact is important, and holding hands is the best way to make us feel connected. I think. But if you'd rather not..."

"Doesn't it hurt you when I touch you? You always cringe."

"Only for a moment." He relaxed a little. "Takes a little while to readjust to the holiness. Don't worry about that, angel."

Aziraphale's fingers squeezed together for a moment, and then, nervously, as if noticing what they was doing, he put his hands behind his back. "Does it actually have to be holding hands? Would another touch work?"

"I suppose. What are you thinking?"

Aziraphale smiled again, and this time it was not a holy celestial blazing smile, but something gentle and nervous. The angel stepped forward, put a hand on each side of Crowley's head, and kissed him.

The pain flared up and away almost before Crowley was conscious of it. His arms came up and pulled Aziraphale tightly against him almost of their own accord. Oh no, some bewildered terrified part of his brain said. He was misinterpreting. They had lived more years than not in times and places in which men kissed each other as chaste salutations, although they'd always avoided making demon-angel mouth contact themselves. This was probably just an old fashioned sealing of an arrangement and if Crowley continued to grab and press like that Aziraphale was going to _smite_ him, and it would be a merciful death, and Aziraphale had just parted his lips, this wasn't chaste at all, was it? He wouldn't be making that sound between a gasp and a moan if it was merely a friendly gesture. Or perhaps Crowley was making the sound. He wasn't at all sure. And Aziraphale's hands had slid down and were kneading the back of his neck and oh _someone_.

There was fire, all right, but it wasn't like being scalded by holiness, this was… was… Crowley stopped thinking at all, and just kissed, because Aziraphale's mouth was willingly open to his and six thousand bloody years of wanting was worth it.

Their lips parted. 

"Oh," said Aziraphale, sounding disappointed. "It didn't work."

"Oh, it did, angel," hissed Crowley. He was having difficulty thinking, but somewhere in his dazed mind he was sure the most urgent thing to think about was whether they could make it all the way to the bedroom or if it was better to just keep going where they were. He leaned in and devoured Aziraphale's mouth again. The angelic heart that still survived somewhere inside him was bursting with light, demonic blood was pounding through his body, and he couldn't tell the difference between them any more.

Aziraphale opened to and returned the kiss. Then he pressed his hands against Crowley's chest and pushed him away, just a little.

"Too much?" Crowley screwed his eyes tight and tried to regain control, releasing his grip and stepping away. " _Angel_ …" He could hear the pleading neediness in his voice, and didn't even care. Let him feel humiliated later. He never had much pride with Aziraphale anyway. "I can stop, I can calm down, I can do anything you need, just don't leave again."

"I mean it didn't work because you're still you. And I'm still me."

"Oh." Crowley opened his eyes. "Oh. That was what we were supposed to be doing. Yeah." 

"It was the general idea." Aziraphale pressed a hand to his own chest, breathing hard. "I think I got distracted. You were being very distracting," he added reproachfully.

" _I_ was being distracting?" Crowley grinned toothily, stepping closer again. He was so light-headed that the felt like he was flying. "Holding hands, wasn't that the original idea? Holding hands was too intimate, angel? So you thought..."

"Now stop that. This is serious," Aziraphale said. "I—I think I know what went wrong."

"Wrong?" Crowley leaned in and stole a soft kiss, without resistance. "Well, wrong is my thing. I'm great at wrong."

"i mean, I know why we didn't swap bodies," Aziraphale clarified, and then quickly, dartingly, returned the kiss, just a fleeting caress, as if he couldn't quite help it. "I think I was forgetting to concentrate on my memories of you and concentrating too much on the present moment."

"I wonder why," Crowley hissed, winding his arms back around Aziraphale's back. "Nothing particularly interesting was happening in the moment, was it, my love?"

" _Love_ ," Aziraphale echoed, and Crowley wondered if it was possible that when Aziraphale had called him "dearest" he had anything as shamelessly soppy as that giddy, glowing expression. No. His sharp face and yellow eyes could never look so utterly adorable. He leaned in again, but this time Aziraphale put a repressing hand over his mouth. "Don't do that, I can't think."

"You can think later," Crowley mumbled against Aziraphale's hand, kissing his palm and hands. "Much later. Busssy now." He seemed to be losing control of his tongue, which was more forked and difficult to speak with by the moment. 

" _No,_ Crowley. Try to stop tempting for five minutes."

"'sss my job." He raked his teeth lightly against a fingertip.

"And you're very good at it, my dearest, but nothing has changed."

" _Everything_ has changed."

"It hasn't changed that my priority is keeping you alive," Aziraphale snapped. "Even if you don't care about your life, I do. And I thought you cared about mine!"

Chastened, Crowley stepped back. "Happy memories. Right. Focus."

"Happy memories." Aziraphale nodded. "I think holding hands might be safest this time."

"Fine." Crowley stuck out his hand, and thought—happy memories. Every smile. Every blush. Every moment of golden flustered pleasure. 

The first moment of his angel's lips against his...

He changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I just rewatched and oh Heavens Crowley has an entire room full of thrones, not one. Oh, well, I'm committed to Single Throne Crowley in this fic.
> 
> 2) Next chapter will probably be the last. We'll see how much room it needs.
> 
> 2) I may have been mostly joking when I said "Five hundred kudos and I'll let the angel and demon kiss", but here we are. Seriously, thank you for your support. See you next chapter.


	10. Changing places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The body swap, and after.

"So what do we do now?" Crowley adjusted his bow tie.

"Go on as normal, I think. Occupy ourselves. Await the crisis." It was disconcerting, watching his body fidget like that. It was a pretty good body, now he saw it from the outside. Those thighs may not be as satisfyingly solid as Aziraphale's, but they looked fantastic in black trousers. 

Crowley stepped closer and ran his hands down them, pulling him—Aziraphale—closer. "I have some ideas on how to occupy ourselves. You know, I wish I'd realised centuries ago how much this body wants that body. Would've made things easier."

Aziraphale slapped his hands lightly, not seeming particularly offended. "Technically, that's still  _ your _ body, or this entire plan wouldn't work. So all we've actually established is that you've fallen victim to the sin of vanity, among others. Or that—th-that you…" He began to stammer.

"Want you? Yeah, old news, my love. Thousands of years old." He slid his hands up to slightly more chaste regions. "Want you so much," he hissed, or tried to hiss. The angel's tongue wasn't really built for it. "Have we discussed the sin of lust, yet?"

"I don't want to act suspiciously." Aziraphale pushed his lower lip out stubbornly. "We need to carry on like normal."

"Hell, I know I  _ never _ looked as adorable as you do right now. I'm pretty sure I never pouted. It's weird for me, too." It was strange, also, pressing kisses along his own cheekbone, but he couldn't resist it anyway. "Look, this could be acting normal. Both Heaven and Hell probably assume we're shacked up already by now. "

"You're more right than you think." Aziraphale shivered, and turned his mouth to be kissed. "Nevertheless, it's no good staying here. We need to lure them into the open and get it over with. Then—we have eternity to work things out between us, if you like."

"I do like. I like a lot. I have a lot of lost time to make up for."

"You have no idea how unsettling it is to see such a fiendish expression on my face." Crowley grinned lasciviously at him. "Oh, my dear fellow, that's even worse." 

"Well, I think  _ I _ look fetching blushing." 

"Yes, you always do." Aziraphale smiled fondly.

"I never blush," Crowley protested, outraged. "I'm a demon. Demons have no shame and we certainly don't blush."

"Tell yourself that if it makes you feel more infernal, you deceptive serpent. Feeling infernal can only help with hellfire. Now, if it wasn't for—this—I would be…" A shadow passed over the sharp face. "Seeing if anything about my bookstore could be saved or restored."

Crowley melted at the sudden sadness. "I'll check on it for you, my love." He managed to bite back some completely ridiculous promises to do anything in the world. He was dimly aware of having lost all remnants of restraint and dignity over the last few hours, and didn't much care.

"Thank you, dearest." Aziraphale caressed his face. How did yellow bulging eyes manage to look so very tender? "I'll leave later. See you at the usual place?"

"Yeah." Crowley reluctantly disengaged himself. "Aziraphale?"

"Hmm?"

"If those bastards Down There hurt you, I'll make them spend the next million milennia wishing for the mercy of holy water."

It was an empty threat, but Aziraphale smiled kindly anyway. "Thank you, dear. But it won't be necessary. Mind how you go, Crowley."

"And you. Especially you, angel."

0000000000

At some point in the whole dizzying and terrifying and extremely satisfying—he would never forget Sandalphon's  _ face _ —succeeding events, Crowley had the time to reflect on how he had been acting and be properly embarassed. Poor angel kissed him once, possibly even with chaste intent, and Crowley had immediately turned into a pushy, needy monster. Very uncool.

It had taken Aziraphale this long to get to this point. Crowley could back off and take it slowly and not frighten him off straight away or smother him. By Satan, he was supposed to be a dark, mysterious loner in black glasses. A lone snake who had defied Heaven and Hell and got away with it. He had to get a better hold of himself.

He managed to not touch Aziraphale on the park bench, even if he lolled around on the bench a bit more consciously sexily than usual, and not try to hold his hand like a lovesick teenager on the way to the Ritz. He could enjoy the sunshine of Aziraphale's attention without being all over him, just like he always had. Enjoy watching him enjoy his food. Cool. He could be cool.

Bastard angel messed it all up by toasting the world with a glowing, melting, adoring expression that made Crowley be willing to fall all over again if he could just ask if  _ he _ was the world to Aziraphale and be assured of a positive response.

He tried to change the subject. "All right. So, what now? You explore actually being a bookseller and passing on some books to potential buyers, or finally admit to yourself you're just being greedy and acquisitive and worshipping material objects?"

Aziraphale looked hurt. "Dear boy, it is an excellent cover. Besides, they are not just material objects. They contain thoughts, words, emotions..."

"But do we need a cover now?" Crowley leaned back in his seat. "Our bosses just tried to kill us. Might suggest we are free agents."

Aziraphale's expression changed in the way that always reminded Crowley that the angel was never quite as soft as he looked. "I give them ten years to decide that this was all part of the Ineffable Plan and pretend to themselves they were just testing my holiness. An apology is too much to expect, but Uriel might give me another gold star. I shall frame it," he added, biting into his dessert with some viciousness.

"You've got a point. I reckon my lot will take even less time to decide that a super powered demon is an asset. And God, as usual, will not talk to any of us about it."

Aziraphale ignored the jab, for once. "I  _ like _ doing miracles and blessings," he said, wistfully. "I love helping people find the good in themselves. I like my job."

"Yeah, it  _ is _ fun, isn't it? I like it when their eyes light up. So endearing. And I quite enjoy a bit of tempting, myself." He grinned. "Do you enjoy doing temptations for me?"

Aziraphale harrumphed and avoided his gaze. Crowley laughed.

"So perhaps we should just carry on with the Arrangement as normal," Aziraphale said.

Fuck his resolutions. He covered Aziraphale's hand quickly with his own, leaning across the table, enjoying the brief stab of pain from the skin contact. He could get used to that. He dropped his voice to a low purr. " _ Exactly _ as normal, my love?"

"Well, not um—um exactly, no." Aziraphale said, turning beet red. "I mean, I was assuming you, I mean we, I mean I was hoping--"

"Look, I know I took credit for inventing PDA as a form of malicious embarrassment, but I also know how much you enjoy the rum baba here, so stop looking so flustered before you tempt me into doing anything that gets us both thrown out." One of the waiters was already discreetly smiling at them, probably thinking aw, look at the old couple being sweet together. He would have been shocked to know how old they really were.

"Oh. Really?" That was definitely Crowley thought, a hopeful note. "So, I suppose, the traditional query is, ah, your place or mine?"

The world spun for a second. Crowley tightened the grip of his hand and tried to keep his voice calm. "Do you even have a bedroom?"

"Well, no. I never saw the point."

"They're very comfortable. I'll be sure to teach you the point. Stay here in Mayfair, then, it's less than three minutes from the Soho shop."

"Maybe the way  _ you _ drive."

"Come home with me, love. Now." He ran a thumb over the back of Aziraphale's hand.

"Is it really a home? I didn't sense much love there." The same gentle, pitying, slightly disappointed look that he had given the flat. "My shop  _ knows _ it is loved."

"It's a place to go. And this morning—at breakfast it felt like home. It probably needs more food in the fridge, granted. Cushions. Books on the floor. Regency silver snuffboxes. Whatever it takes to make you feel at home. I'll drop you off to work every morning or evening or whenever you decide to open the blessed shop. Come on, angel, help me out, I'm trying to propose here." So much for being cool. His heart was pounding in his ears.

"You're  _ what _ ?"

"I think the houseplants get lonely when I'm out. They could use someone nice to talk to."

_"Crowley."_

"Don't sound so taken aback. You kissed me first." He stared at their hands, at the way Aziraphale had curled his fingers possessively around his own. He certainly wasn't trying to withdraw them. There was that. "Too fast?" He dared to look up, and it was the fierce blazing angelic countenance again. He tried to meet it with one of his own. After all, he was of angelic stock, too. "You were still afraid this was just a seduction, weren't you? Pushing you bit by bit into compromising your principles.  _ Angel. _ My angel." He brought his other hand to the table, put it to the other side of Aziraphale's, so that his hand was clasped in both of his. "Not much bloody point to that kind of thing between us any more, is it?"

"None at all." Aziraphale crumpled his napkin with an air of decision. "Take me home."

They made it to the Bentley, which Crowley had left at the side of the road in the consciousness that parking regulations happened to other people, before Crowley lost his resolution to brook no delays and pushed Aziraphale against the car for just one kiss on the way.

As the angel pulled him even closer and opened his mouth to him, Crowley was almost sure he heard birdsong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Okay, I lied. It's not finished. Even though 10 would have been a nice round number of chapters.
> 
> 2) The day before yesterday was my eleven year wedding anniversary with romana03. Well, one of them. We had a civil partnership first, then a wedding. We celebrate both. But true love forever is obviously very much on my mind, and I _did_ warn this would be shamelessly sappy.
> 
> 3) I totally would not find myself attractive. But. Crowley.


	11. Very nice indeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the angel and the demon made it there in the end.

For once Aziraphale didn’t object to Crowley’s driving, although his grip on the door was a bit white knuckled. For his part, Crowley drove one handed, the other hand possessively draped on Aziraphale’s thigh, an echo of the bus trip—had it only been yesterday? 

At no point did Aziraphale remind him to keep both hands on the steering wheel.

Crowley practically hustled Aziraphale into the lift, arms around his waist before the doors slid shut, clutching tight. He was aware of a kind of desperate anxious hurry to seal the deal, before everything went wrong and Aziraphale reconsidered and they were back in the old sweet and painful dance. He didn’t think he could survive that. Get the angel into the flat, ravish him, bask in the accomplishment. Yes.

But once they were in the flat, his energy seemed to leave him, and he stood, helpless and lost, feeling a kind of scared awe he hadn’t felt since—well, since the Old Days. Standing impure, faulty and made of sharp corners and wrong desires in front of sheer Grace.

“It’s all right, my dearest,” Aziraphale said gently, putting his arms around his and kissing his hair. “I’m here and I’m not going to be scared away again."

“That obvious, huh?"

“Perhaps a bit.” Aziraphale smiled and blinked blond eyelashes. His smile was demure and probably inappropriately prim for the situation, but it made Crowley’s heart flip over and the rest of his body respond as if it had been the most deviantly demonic seduction ever. The urgency returned, and he pulled Aziraphale into the bedroom.

He say Aziraphale’s green-blue eyes take in the size of the bed and the fact that, in contrast to the rest of the pristine flat, it was unmade, and saw the lips twitch in amusement. “Oh shut  _ up _ ,” he said, although Aziraphale hadn’t actually said anything, and pulled him onto the bed.

Above him, Aziraphale smiled fondly down, removing his sunglasses. “I’m just glad that at least one room in this place looks like you actually enjoy being in it."

“Funny you should mention that, love. I’m intending on enjoying myself more here than I ever had before.” He dragged Aziraphale’s head down and kissed him fiercely, deeply and possessively. 

“I—I’m sure you’ve enjoyed yourself here before—“ Aziraphale stammered, when Crowley released him at last.

“Are you kidding? This is  _ my _ place. No one is allowed in here but me and the greenery.” Unless they were trying to kill him, but that was the last thing he wanted to think about. They were safe for now, they were together, and he’d be damned—blessed—something if he let anyone threaten Aziraphale again.

Aziraphale looked doubtful. “So this bed is a place of chastity?"

“Not when I’m thinking about you, angel,” he admitted, biting Aziraphale’s lip to relieve his feelings and embarrassment.

“Oh.” Aziraphale seemed flustered, even with his hips melded to Crowley’s and evidence of his own less than chaste state all too telling. Crowley rocked against him. “ _ Oh. _ Ah, often?"

Crowley grinned up at him. "What do you think? And what about you? Ever sit alone with your books late at night and let your thoughts drift to your best friend?"

“Certainly not. I don’t let my thoughts dwell on earthly pleasures,” Aziraphale said, which was such a blatant fib that Crowley laughed triumphantly.

“You  _ did _ . Should have known, you're a created sensualist. And I was right here, all you had to do was… Oh, my love.” He wrapped his legs around Aziraphale and his forking tongue around Aziraphale’s more human one, and they still had their jackets on, that was uncomfortable and in the way, too many clothes altogether when he needed to feel skin, they should just go away...

“I hope you’ve put them somewhere safe. I’m very fond of that jacket,” Aziraphale murmured against his mouth.

“Of course,” Crowley said guiltily, and manifested some neatly folded up clothes on a chair near the bed. He hoped he’d got the stitching right. He decided to distract attention by  _ slithering _ a little against Aziraphale.

It worked. “Crowley!” Aziraphale yelped. His face was very still for a moment, and then he bucked, thrusting against Crowley’s bare hip, rocking frenetically. Crowley wrapped his arms tight around him, kissing the side of his face and his shoulder and everywhere he could reach.

“That’s it, love, that’s right, come to me,” he hissed encouragingly. “My love, my angel, my Aziraphale, that’s right love, let go, I love you—"

Aziraphale cried out sharply and shuddered and suddenly his wings were out, arcing above them in blinding white. 

Crowley reached up, tangled one hand in the feathers, stroking Aziraphale’s back with the other. “Aziraphale."

Startled blue eyes met his own. “You  _ do _ ? You never said."

Crowley managed to come down from his own plane of bewildered joyful desire enough to splutter. “Isn’t it obvious? What do you think all this is about?"

“You’re a demon."

“Yeah, and I don’t usually ask someone to spend their life with me.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “And you?"

“What do you  _ think? _ How many angels did you say have ended up in this bed?"

“I wouldn’t like to commit to a firm number— _ ow _ . Don’t pinch.” Fireworks were going off behind his eyes, and he was aching almost beyond belief. He tightened his fist in the feathers. “Answer the question?"

“I love you. I love you, you stupid, stupid, irritating demon.” There were tears of sincerity in Aziraphale's eyes. Or maybe pain. Crowley released his grip a bit.

“Not the most romantic declaration, but I’ll take it.” The fireworks had become supernovas. “I love you—Aziraphale,  _ please _ ..."

Aziraphale kissed his lips briefly, then slid down, and there was no room for thought any more.

At some point in the night his own wings came out, but he couldn’t be sure when. All he knew was that they both put their wings away later so that he could teach Aziraphale the joy of sleeping spooned tightly in his arms, not that it wasn’t a new idea to him anyway, not having cuddled much in the last sixty centuries.

And that for the first time, perhaps in ever, the future of the Earth and his own personal future seemed like a nice place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) And they made it there in the end! Thanks for all the support and bearing with my sappiness, I have had a wonderful ride, and loved writing every minute.
> 
> 2) Um. So much so that I went straight onto the next one, "There Will Come a Day." Aziraphale's POV this time, different continuity, starting in the 1920s in the South of France.I love having a fandom in which you can pick pretty much any time and place without needing it to be an AU. I'd love it if you join me, and if not, thank you SO MUCH for reading this whole thing. Love our angel and demon always, and glad so many others do as well.

**Author's Note:**

> After a long hiatus from fandom, apparently what it took was a perfect adaptation of a book that was one of my very first slash fandoms to bring me back.


End file.
